Fire and Ire
by imaginexthat
Summary: Viktor Krum held the belief that unity, not magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary:**_ Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ JKR owns everything Harry Potter-related. I own nothing but my imagination.

So, this is a long time coming. My version of the Deathly Hallows. Viktor Krum deserves recognition; he was not just a plot tool. So, there.

Thanks to Wikipedia for the facts inserted in the first three chapters.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

It was Sunday afternoon. Viktor Krum was standing inside the Shipka Memorial Church. The church was built to commemorate the fallen Bulgarians and Russians that opposed the attack of the Turkish more than a century ago. There were sarcophagi inside the temple in which the dead heroes laid to rest. The church bells were cast from cartridges from the historic battles.

He was observing women pray and recalled Levski's words, "If you're looking for a decent woman to be your girlfriend or wife, you'll find one in church."

He did not know what he needed more, friends, or a decorous woman.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a pygmy owl that had landed on his shoulder. It pulled out its leg to expose a rolled-up envelope. Out of respect, he walked outside and sat on the paved stairway in front of the church.

Inside the envelope was a wrinkled card. It was from his friend Fleur Delacour.

Fleur was a witch graduate of Beaubatons Academy in France who had immigrated to Britain. She, like Viktor, represented her school in the Triwizard Tournament two years ago. Neither won, but sometimes the journey and what they gained from it was more rewarding. Well, who was Viktor kidding?

Fleur who was his only source of news about Britain, had written him previously about working at the wizarding bank, Gringotts, with Bill Weasley. Though Viktor never wrote her back, she considered him a friend worth keeping. The card in his hand was an invitation to their wedding in August next year.

Viktor sighed, as he offered the owl some candy from his pocket, ignoring its hoots of protest. From her brief news, there was a war in progress in Britain. Escaped Deatheaters still at large, causing devastation disguised as disasters. Dementors roaming the streets, spreading despair. Ministry of Magic losing public trust. Businesses closing.

Was a wedding really necessary? Or was it because of the war that they were doing this? Not like he cared.

He would not attend such a social event for whatever reason. Hermione Granger was friends with the Weasley family. She would surely be invited. And with her, Harry Potter. Viktor scowled.

He remembered her wild hair, her pile of books, her warm, smiling brown eyes, her trusting nature,...God, he was such an idiot.

Frowning, Viktor scribbled a hasty reply on the envelope, then folded and fastened it on the owl's leg before shooing the bird away.

He had a girlfriend now. Yordanka Petrova. She was the winner with the title of "Queen of the Roses" in the 1996 Rose Festival in his parents' hometown of Kazanlak. Viktor remembered being overwhelmed by the amorous scent of the famed red roses in bloom in that town. His eyes and heart opened up to her. She was a nice, lovely, bright, shapely young Muggle woman who wanted a better life for herself. She had won his parents' hearts, and had been devoted to him.

She was not aware of his international popularity and he had obliviated her time and again when she had caught on to his magical world. She had been harmed by a fangirl more often than she deserved. They were supposed to go to Sofia today for dinner and more, but she had requested to meet him here.

He did not think that he was ready to settle, despite his mother's encouragement. Their relationship had barely been a year, although it escalated quickly.

"Yordanka!" He saw her on the road leading up to the Church. She waved at him. He immediately sensed that she was less cheerful than usual. He thought it must have been the chill of beginning winter. Summer was her favorite season. She was wearing jeans and a light sweater. Why did she not dress prettily today?

And why was she with Emanuil Leviev, a common friend?

She walked briskly to stop at the bottom of the stairway.

"Viktor, we need to talk."

Everything within sight was a blur to Viktor. Her voice sounded far away. Either that or every word she said stung. She sat beside him, her hands on her knees, and gave him a hard stare.

"Viktor, I cannot wait anymore. It is obvious to me that you do not take your future seriously. You have no job, you live in the mountains doing goodness knows what. You hang out with your friends drinking and laughing like there's no tomorrow. Your friends have no jobs. Zograf had at least a potential future in soccer.

"I have dreams, I told you. I cannot stay in this country anymore. If I am to succeed, I must decide now. I like you, Viktor, but there is nothing for me here." Something about the economy and lack of opportunities.

She caressed his cheek, and kissed him on the lips. "Thank you, Viktor. Forgive me for ending it. You are a wonderful man, but you must strive to do something at least for your future family." She wistfully played with his stubble, before she caught herself.

Viktor was shocked. He was not ready for marriage, but surely she felt his love for her?

And, he had a career, his friends were all Quidditch players. But, yes, she would never know that.

He could not fault her for her decision. He knew she had been wanting to study in Britain since he had met her. He had just delayed the inevitable, and it was not fair to her. No words came out of his mouth, even as he opened it. Her determined or pitying gaze silenced him.

He glanced at Emanuil, resisting the urge to scowl; he knew the man would take care of her. They were both studious, both dreamers. They deserved each other.

Viktor felt like he betrayed her by even remembering Hermione.

Yordanka had been a wonderful distraction after his first heartbreak. They shared beautiful not so innocent moments, marred with excuses, absences, and lies. He had wanted to reveal to her his hidden world, but the memory charm had been convenient. It had been a cowardly choice. Maybe if Emanuil had not been around now, Viktor would have shown her. But maybe the sight of Emanuil was a wake-up call in itself.

He could not promise any woman anything. His career came first. There was so much that he wanted to do.

Viktor stood up as Emmanuil approached. Both shook hands and shared restrained smiles, their faces reflected an unspoken agreement. Yordanka hugged Viktor, and he noticed that she looked relieved and happier than he'd ever seen her.

How long had they planned this? Did they have plane tickets already? Visas?

The parting smile he gave her did not reach his heart.

He turned his back to them, as the pair walked away. He took a long hard look at the majestic Muscovite-style church with its onion-shaped domes gilded in gold and tents of bell towers, with ornate borders, arches and pillars. It was a symbol of...what exactly? He was lost for words.

Dimitrov said he was becoming boring; he needed to pull new stunts. The sports fans wanted to see bloody violence...

Viktor needed to meet with his friends. Over drinks. Alcohol was the ultimate cure for distractions, boredom and the chill inside of him.

* * *

Viktor lived in the town of Shipka, 650 m above sea level, in the Balkan mountains, not far north from Kazanlak. Unlike his parents' house, his was a modest one-level stone house with two bedrooms, one bath, one receiving area, and a dinette. He had Muggle appliances. His friends would come over four nights a week.

He had stocked up on Mavrud wine, beer and rose brandy. His friends joined him for dinner of salad, cold meat, bread, and soup. They were his Quidditch team mates. All older than Viktor. The chasers Dimitri, Ivanova, and Levski, the beaters Volkov and Vulchanov, and the keeper Zograf.

Zograf brought some VHS tapes of past Muggles sports games on Volleyball, Football, Basketball, and Tennis. Watching the games was the highlight of their evenings together. Muggle sports made sense; it was more fun and exciting compared to Quidditch. They watched these games to pick up some pointers or techniques that they could apply to Quidditch, but in the end, the games were just delightful distractions.

Zograf, 23 years old, was the one who strategized their games. He had Muggle soccer athletes for friends. They, unaware that he was a wizard, had welcomed him to their group. Soccer was good training for goalkeeping in Quidditch, since it entailed a good bit of blocking.

"Nice, Zograf, as always, what are we going to do without you?" Volkov slurred, while drinking beer. It was already past midnight, his eyes a bit cross-eyed from watching.

"Well, since the management had reduced our funding, we have to find other places and ways to practice..." Zograf looked grim, but not defeated.

"It's hard to practice with the Quaffle you know, without flying. My neighbors found it funny how we pass it around like idiots on the ground." Dimitrov said. The Quaffle was no football, its shape alone was funny, weird.

"Yeah, I could fly around their houses just to freak them out, but your mother won't have it." Ivanova said absently, as he mulled over the tapes' covers.

"We play basketball more often, about the same thing, we are thinking." Levski shrugged.

"I refuse to be put down by this! Our international ranking will improve this time. If this is what it takes to get into their good graces, we will give them the game they want!"

Vulchanov suddenly stood up as he exploded, banging his beer bottle on the table.

He looked at Viktor pointedly.

"What?!"

"No more distractions, Viktor. Get your head out of the gutter."

He was regarded as the baby in the group. The boy who had yet to grow up. They were hypocrites, the lot of them.

"Look who's talking. Don't think we don't know what you and Volkov do in your spare time in Sofia. Muggle tourist guides. I'm sure the tourists get more than they asked for." There was a mixture of catcalling, chortling and sniggering.

"The point, exactly. Just fleeting fancies. No attachments."

They've been playing far longer than any of the team. They were always bored with practices even in the good old days. Viktor would not be surprised if they had decided on another worthy investment of their time.

"Unlike us, you guys don't need practice. You just need to get angry and beat someone up." Levski pointed out. He meant they were the burliest of the group. And, really, beaters required just the basics of instinct.

"Viktor here, just needed some inspiration. Don't you?" Levski wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. He had been hoping for his own inspiration for the longest time.

"Quidditch has become boring, at least for me, the older I get. The magical world should take after Muggles, invent a better game, I am thinking. Maybe I should do you all a favor, and think of one." Ivanova stated. The alcohol had emboldened him as he was visibly lost in his thoughts. Sadly, would he remember this all by tomorrow?

Yordanka thought they were doing nothing. They took their profession seriously.

Zograf said. "I have gathered enough leva to bribe some of my acquaintances into breaking into a small football field in a school in Sliven. I foresee no problem, just silencing charms and anti-Muggle wards. There's only the school guard to deal with. If we're lucky we could do it three nights in a row. You all in?"

Bulgaria was surrounded by Muggle countries, and even the Balkan Mountains had passes through which Muggles had access. The country was industrialized and urbanized. The pollution alone from the industries was a health threat especially to wizards. There was too much magical interference. No one wanted to be seen by Muggles, nor be smashed against buildings, power plants or water dams.

If they were being honest with themselves, they felt constricted by the environment they lived in. The management did not care.

When everyone cheered and chorused their concurrence, Zograf approached Viktor privately.

"Viktor, try to focus on the game, alright?" Zograf, the closest in age and affinity to him knew about his heartbreak. Viktor nodded assent.

"As for you, no more dodging vehicles running in the opposite direction, okay?"

"Hey, it was fun! I was invisible, I was flying." Zograf drained his wine glass.

"Stupid and dangerous, my friend." Viktor put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not fair that only you get to fly." They had been hard-pressed to practice on their own in the last year.

"Don't envy me. You do more for this team than I do. Catching the Snitch is okay. But stunts?" He held his nose in reflex.

"Yordanka had noticed." Viktor nodded, grudgingly.

"Vain now, are we Viktor?" He scowled. Zograf chuckled.

"Learn to fix it properly, then. Practice your stunts, but be careful, Viktor. It's more a matter of control and timing. Not everything rests on your shoulders. Unity is might. I hate this as much as you do, believe me. I'm beginning to agree with Ivanova."

They both turned to the rest of the team, who were laughing, drinking beer, singing Bulgarian songs in unnerving keys.

All of them were brothers Viktor never had. He felt responsible for them. He would do what it takes.

* * *

There was something to be said about doing something wrong when no one was watching that appealed to young men. Although they were really doing it out of necessity. Only it was too good to last.

Zograf blamed the unrestrained whoops from Dimitrov hurtling the Quaffle though the goalpost, Viktor's yelps after receiving a Bludger to his nose, and Levski's idiotic screaming while looping in the air like a roller coaster. Or his teeth chattering that prevented him from intoning correctly or from hearing the guard's footfalls.

Everyone else claimed it was Zograf's fault: his silencing charm was weak, and he obliviated the school guard too late, after the National Police Service had already been alerted.

There was something about a gun that stunned or intimidated a wizard. It was Viktor's father who freed them from detention by obliviating the guard, the police, other prisoners, bystanders, and later Zograf's friends. All Muggle paperwork, and Mugshots pertaining to them were incinerated. He had to answer to the Accidental Magical Reversal Department official as well. It was the shame and not all the bribable leva spent that put a stop to the shenanigans.

Viktor's father had no words for them when they apologized profusely. He was proud of Viktor, but he was not a fan of Quidditch. He probably regretted the day he bought his son the magical toy broom that inflamed Viktor's self-confidence.

* * *

The winter stunted the group as the friends curbed their alcohol and resorted to playing football at the Seuthopolis Square in Kazanlak to the amusement of Muggles. Meanwhile, Viktor refocused on brainstorming, that is, staging his "death-defying" stunts. They were better than the Wronski Feint, he had reassured his friends.

One time, Viktor woke up to find himself lying in a hospital bed surrounded by his team mates, and his parents. It reminded him vaguely of one of their games, those times when the Mediwitch was treating him for sports injuries, particularly teaching him how to fix his broken nose. His nose was fine, but he had a bandage wrapped around his head.

"Don't touch it, Viktor, you might bleed." Zograf standing on his right admonished him, before stepping aside.

"Good thing he didn't bleed inside his head. He's fine now, he's awake, and he'll be up and about in a day or two." It was a female voice. The Muggle nurse had started to remove the contraption on his hand, his apparent lifeline.

He saw his mother seated on a chair by the foot of the bed, sobbing, his father silently stroking her back, his face weary.

Viktor tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but Levski to his left gently pushed him back on the bed. He had a disconcerted expression on his face.

"Just rest a bit. We're just waiting on the doctor. I'm sorry, this was the nearest place I could take you, Viktor." A small private room with a window that allowed daylight in but failed to warm him. His bed was uncomfortable, or maybe it was just the prevailing atmosphere of gloom.

"You really don't remember what happened, do you?" Zograf asked irritably. He was met with silent confusion. He nodded like this was expected.

"Last night, you were trying on a stunt." Levski spoke nervously, glancing at Viktor's parents furtively. "You were flying so fast along the slopes, I could barely keep up. You hit an oak tree branch, I think, and suddenly you were falling." He gulped.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to get to you in time. I was so afraid." He wiped his brows.

"He Summoned you, and brought you here. And called us all." Zograf finished.

"If the fool had not brought his wand, what would've happened then?!" His father scowled, his voice a tone of menace.

Viktor could not remember what transpired the previous night. All he knew was that he was planning on some stunts for their upcoming games. They were dangerous, but he did not think they would almost cost him his life.

He could not bear to look at his parents. He could imagine his mother crying in the hours that he was unconscious. His friends had the grace to keep quiet, though he could see Vulchanov nodding in approval.

"You are all young! Why do you treat life like it's a sport? There is so much more to life than playing! Money isn't everything. Damn international magical cooperation! You are breaking your mothers' hearts...Life matters!" She seized her scarf and blew her nose on it. "What if he had not woken up at all?" She choked out the last question, and received whispers of comfort from his father. She hated that the team was banking on Viktor's popularity.

The Muggle doctor came a few minutes later to tell him that he had suffered from a concussion, but his mental faculties had been restored. Aside from the sutures on his face and forehead that would be removed in a week, he was free to go.

Viktor considered just vanishing the wounds away, but his mother would likely disapprove. She worked as a pharmacist, after all. He was so dissociated from the accident, likely because of the amnesia, that he was not dissuaded from his original plans.

Despite Viktor's head injury, he continued to fly, this time over the Black Sea, almost every weeknight. His friends that were with him were able to practice passing the Quaffle and Bludgers around. There were no hoops, the Quaffle kept dropping into the sea, but there was camaraderie.

If there was a formula for victory it was unity. As spring symbolized to Muggles death to new life, gloom to happiness, it meant for them a new outset, a new mindset. Anything was possible if it was made a common cause.

They continued to practice despite all restraints, remained optimistic despite all obstacles, in the months leading up to the match with Canada. In other times, they soared the skies for the simple truth that they were wizards, and they were flyers.

Viktor would choose friends over women any day.

* * *

 ** _AN: I have divided the first chapter into two. It was lengthy. So, if I could interest you in reading the next chapter,..._**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Summary:**_ Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ JKR owns everything Harry Potter-related. I own nothing but my imagination.

So, this is my version of the Deathly Hallows. Viktor Krum deserves recognition; he was not just a plot tool. So, there.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

The summer night sky was clear; a breeze tickled him. The stadium, flooded with greenish golden light, was full of energy and enthusiasm. The field looked fresh, smoothly shaven from his lofty position. Close to ninety thousand witches and wizards from around the world had come to watch the 425th Quidditch World Cup Semifinals. Bulgaria against Canada: the penultimate match. Denmark was the host country; it won the Cup in 1992.

Viktor Krum was hovering about one hundred feet from the ground, inconspicuous, in his usual pensive mood. He was clad in thick scarlet robes and wore black combat boots. He had had his head shaved about two millimeters from the skin all along the hairline and a centimeter from the skin on the top. A stubble on his chin and an outline of a mustache completed his Quidditch haircut. All in all, very aerodynamic.

At the announcement of his national team, his mates zoomed on their broomsticks from the pitch into the air, forming a blurry, red trail after them.

Viktor customarily waited for his special introduction as the best seeker in the world. He was proud of this title. This achievement was his constant self-reminder that he was the best at something. He was the smartest in his year, but his grades did not amount to anything in the last three years.

He was no lightweight athlete. He was in fact, more of a Keeper build, but he was the most agile, the fastest, and arguably the cleverest. When he flew, it was said that he looked weightless, broomless. His air speed dizzied everyone, and when he stopped, everyone gasped. He could dive from a hundred feet in the air to within a foot from the ground in one precipitous drop, whether he was catching a snitch or feigning a catch.

It was not so much the adulation and applause that satisfied him as it was the limits that he pushed himself against.

Viktor loved the thrill of flying, the carefree abandonment. If there was a broom-racing sport, he'd compete in it. He played as Seeker not to score, not to win, but to fly like no other, to catch what only he could see.

His teammates were the ones burdened with garnering points. To anyone else, they looked like out of practice at the sport. But they're competitive, shrewd, intimidating. They had mastered the balance of aggression, bloody violence, entertainment and fair play.

What was better than winning a game? It was having the enemy give it their all, for naught.

Tactics was the name of the game. Aggression gave as great a thrill as victory. When else was violence acceptable by society? People wanted to see athletes bleed, break, fall, and challenge death. To risk one's life meant not to live long enough to enjoy it. The counter was to challenge authority. Rebels were heroes. Be a rebel or be an entertainer. One athlete's finality or immortality rested on memories and opinions of strangers.

Viktor could not remember when he became the leader of the group. All he did was acrobatics. He had command of the game in so far as he could end it anytime he wished, but for all anyone knew, he had quite possibly the most boring job of all. Seeking snitches tended to become predictable and mundane without acrobatics, stunts, or injury.

Viktor could not count the number of times he broke and bloodied his nose not just from the mishaps of overspeeding, but from mauling by competitors. A bloody face enlivened the audience, especially combined with a cracked rib or two. He was a consistent object of pity and admiration. Other players thought he was overconfident. They did not see his hurt ego.

For as long as he entertained, the Bulgarian team remained in business; there would be sponsors, albeit cheap and abysmal. It made sense. It made everyone feel important. At least Viktor thought so.

* * *

What was worse than losing a game? It's having the enemy talk you into it.

As soon as Viktor's name was announced to boisterous cheers and massive applause, he zipped through the field, and with one hand on his broom, he somersaulted in the air while he flipped his broom on its end in one flawless, swift motion.

When Viktor righted himself on his broom, he whizzed around the field very close to the stands, then stopped at the middle of the pitch so suddenly for dramatic effect. He thought he had a whiplash injury. His wrists hurt from pulling his broom.

He pumped his fist up simultaneously with chants from the audience of "Krum! Krum! Krum!" Light flashed from thousands of Omnioculars and cameras in the stadium.

Before Viktor knew it, a loud hooting sound signaled the start of the game, and the Canadian Maples began their series of winning goals. They looked sharp and very synchronized. They reminded him of Muggle hockey players slicing through ice. They definitely had more practice.

As the game wore on, Viktor remained about fifty feet higher in the air than the rest of the players, as he watched the Canadian chasers consistently confused Dimitri, Ivanova, and Levski into losing the Quaffle. Zograf, in excellent form as always, swerved from hoop to hoop with fluidity, successfully blocking the Canadian chasers from scoring, until they pulled the Hawkshead Attacking Formation on him. It did not help that all three were women. The beaters Vulchanov and Volkov were merciless, resorting to kicking and elbowing, but still the opponents continued to lead. Viktor was ruminating over another diversionary tactic, when...

"Nice stunt, Krum! I'm afraid for all your disregard for life and limb, you won't be able to catch the snitch. Your glory days are over!"

It was the opposing team's seeker who suddenly appeared about ten feet in front of him, goading him. He looked, what, 19? Did youth really have anything to do with speed or victory? It was the broom that garnered speed. He had trusted this inanimate object with his life. And no kid could scare him into believing he could not think on his feet.

As he scowled at the boy, he inclined his body slightly to the left to let a Bludger whooshed by.

"Did you really hit your head in an accident? Maybe you need to retire, my friend, let the young ones take the glory. We will win in a walk, just you wait!"

Viktor peered down. Where was the snitch? It was dark, but it would reflect the lights from the stands...

"You are crying for the moon! You may have come from one of the biggest schools in the world, but your knowledge of the game is obsolete! Even your broom is not the fastest, not anymore."

And to demonstrate his point, the boy swooped down on the pitch. This alarmed Viktor. Was the boy doing a Wronski Feint, or had he actually seen the snitch? Should Viktor risk it?

No, Viktor was level-headed. Or was he just too scared to break his nose again?

He stared, unblinking, and then he saw it. The boy had indeed been bluffing. Viktor still had the eyes of a hawk, thank God. He shifted his attention to the magical blackboard, where numbers were displayed.

The opponent team had scored 200 to their 40. That meant 20 goals to 4. They had been playing a dismal, all but losing game.

It was too early to focus on the Snitch.

But then, the boy did not come back up, and suddenly there was cacophony in the stands. Viktor scanned the field below. The boy had changed direction, apparently heading for the Golden ball. To let that boy with the faster broom beat Viktor to it meant his popularity would be crushed. With it, his career, his friends' hope for bigger fortunes...

Viktor, abandoning all thought and hope, zoomed for the snitch. No one had been expecting it, so early in the game. He caught it easily, the audience roared in triumph, but the faces on his friends came as a shock.

He did not have to look or listen for the scores. Canada, 200. Bulgaria, 190. Game over.

The Canadian seeker walked briskly past him, shouting, "Thanks for the game, Krum!" His guffaws were ringing in Viktor's ears long after he'd gone.

As Viktor Krum stood on the pitch, his hand still holding the snitch, he felt like he was in a vacuum. Everything before him moved slowly. Blood rushed to his face. There was pounding in his ears, but no other sound. The fangirls were running towards him, but they were stopped and ushered away by wizard officials. He tasted acid in his mouth.

Then he heard a familiar voice. "Viktor, what happened up there?!" It was Levski, who gave him an incredulous look, before he was dragged off by a fuming Dimitrov.

"Someone really has to come up with a better game than Quidditch someday. One that does not depend on one athlete to lose. But till then, it's all we have. Did you think about our pride at all?" Ivanova had never spoken so coldly before. He too, left, huffing.

Viktor turned around slowly, dumbly. Volchanov and Volkov strode over to him as soon as they landed. "Why do you spoil it for everyone, Krum? We were so close! Why do you stray away from the plan?!" Vuchanov shouted.

"My b-brothers, I'm sure our sponsors are happy. We get paid all the same. I-It's just a trophy..."

Volkov's eyes regarded him with contempt.

"This is why we do not get funding! You think we are not good enough team! Not popular without your antics!" Volkov shoved him, and Vulchanov hurled a fist into Viktor's stomach, before both men stalked off, cursing.

Viktor scowled at their backs, until he saw Zograf's pained face.

"What were you saving all your money for, Viktor? Is that all you care about? It's times like these that I wish I had been a Muggle soccer player instead. I'm sick of hiding. Behind Muggles, behind you. So much for friends; for unity."

Before Viktor could say anything, he realized he was alone. The ball was cold in his sweaty palm.

Was he really losing his touch?

* * *

The adrenaline had worn off, and fatigue began to set in. His right wrist hurt. A year ago, his Mediwizard had warned him that at the rate he was abusing it, his right hand could go numb in a few months. Was this the time to save face and quit?

Even a Muggle doctor he consulted in Sofia, upon parental advice, agreed. "Athletes are not invincible. You're not the first, certainly won't be the last. You're still young, but it is the young that are reckless and daring. For your condition, I suggest..."

Whatever the doctor recommended was lost on Viktor.

Three years, and he was not a better Quidditch player. He just aged.

A broom holiday was just what he needed; his butt needed a rest. Maybe he could walk straight again.

His parents took the news well. "Fourth place; that wasn't so bad, son." His mother smiled encouragingly. His father remarked curtly. "You've always liked football better. All of you did. It takes grace to admit defeat. Anyway, you're too smart for Quidditch." His mother interjected, pinching his cheek, "this handsome face does not deserve a crooked nose."

Regression was the path for the injured ego.

There was pity for the Bulgarian seeker in the newspaper, _The Vulgar Truth_. "Fans praised his bravery and tenacity despite the mental handicap that cost the Bulgarians the match." Although some just believed him old. "Some hold the opinion that Mr. Krum had either wanted to retire early, or had been offered to join another team, that made him give the game away. Or maybe this was simply one oversight too many. This is what happens when you play one game too many."

Viktor refused to lose sleep over it.

He focused on swimming for two weeks, along the many shallow rivers and tributaries draining into the Tundzha river. The floaty feeling soothed his muscles and joints. Injuries he dealt with on a regular basis, though pain was not something he got used to.

He was lost in his thoughts again, as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened in the past few months; he was becoming agitated.

Was there something missing in his life? Was there something he had forgotten that caused all these errors in judgment in the first place? Had the head injury addled his mind? He was useless, stupid, and no amount of swear words changed that fact.

At the vehement complaints from the rest of the Bulgarian National Team, the management decided to train a Seeker understudy immediately, in an effort to warn Krum to shape up or sod off.

He welcomed the decision. He had been given two months vacation.

His face was seen in commercials that promoted the sport, as well as in endorsements of the latest edition of the Nimbus broom series. He declined interviews. He still received fan mails, bags of them dumped on his doorstep. He refused to read them.

He visited his parents more often: he allowed his mother to smother him, and serve him. He volunteered to help his father with checking Muggle school papers close to the end of term. His father mentioned that underneath Shipka as well as Kazanlak was a necropolis waiting to be uncovered, filled with rich history and gold that would bring more world attention to Bulgaria.

Great. Wonderful.

Viktor had been waiting for his father to finally come down on him regarding his alternative career choices, but he didn't. He himself was a man of contradiction.

His father believed that it was the magic in Viktor that truly saved him from death in the Balkan mountains. Magic that allowed him to survive. As Muggle he would've died a long time ago, having made Quidditch a more dangerous sport than ever.

"Magic does not have the capability that Muggles have. Muggles have all these inventions and innovations that make life better for mankind. They have no need for magic. We are intruders, getting by. Invisible."

Both father and son scowled at the idea. They were seated across from each other at the dining table, shuffling papers dispersed before them, his father drinking rose bandy. It was close to dinner time, and Viktor was glaring at the Muggle pen in his hand like it had offended him.

"But, we must not forget who we are. We must always foster magic. Use it to protect our families, to defend our country." His father continued.

Viktor thought the Muggles were holding up nicely on their own. Muggle weaponry could annihilate more people than a wand could. Magic had been relegated to something that was superstitious, against spiritual good, ludicrous, entertaining, deceptive.

"We cannot even use it to simplify our life. What is the point of charms, spells and even transfiguration?"

His father sighed, before staring at his son unbelievingly. He pulled out his wand and transfigured Viktor's pen into a thorny rose. Viktor stifled a gasp as he dropped the rose; his finger had been punctured and was bleeding minimally. The rose was transfigured into a gauze that wrapped around his wounded finger. He stared at his father.

"To save a life, maybe. Maybe if you use your wand more, you wouldn't need saving, Viktor."

* * *

Torrential rain had fallen when Viktor flew homeward one night after having spent a day and a half hiking and camping at the Bulgarka Nature Park. Rainy days were his absolute favorite days even as they were his parents' dreaded days. He brought a bottle of red wine and his accumulated mail from both owl and Muggle posts to his bedroom.

As he turned on his desk lamp, he saw the familiar three Martenitsa trinkets that hung on its shade. They were from his mother. One for each springtime since he "flew the nest." Each was given to wish him good health. An intertwined white and red woolen figures of a male and a female, respectively. The trinkets made him feel discomfited, but he kept them for her sake, and not because he was superstitious. So Muggle of her. They obviously did not work, as no superstition did, but he would never cross her. He couldn't figure out women, his mother included. He took a swig from his bottle.

He started his hearth going; the fire crackled merrily, consuming all his fan mails, suffusing his room with warm honey light. He took off his wet shirt and laid it on the back of his chair. He sat on his desk to start on the rest of the owl-mail that he received during his encampment. He had been in a sour mood since he read news of the death of a great man. One letter, however, managed to cheer him up; he wanted to reply urgently.

He opened his drawer to fish out a pen, when his fingers caught something else. The wedding invitation from Delacour. He banged the drawer shut.

He sat on the side of the bed. A glow rushed over him as he watched the flames. He wanted to burn the card.

Viktor Krum was not jealous of Delacour. He had love in his life and that was enough.

He tried to imagine Yordanka's face. Her straight, short dark hair that she refused to fuss over. Her lips that quirk when he silenced her impatience and second thoughts with kisses. Her stern eyes that lit with a passion for research. She wanted a solution for every problem in the world. Illiteracy. Pollution. Poverty. Prejudice.

His feeling of emptiness had nothing to do with her leaving. He had always felt this way ever since he gained international fame as a professional athlete. It was only natural since he was always surrounded by strangers.

He never warmed up to the attention, yet it would be hypocritical to complain when he was compensated. There were perks. He was not stuck in Bulgaria waiting for things to happen. Until now.

Now, he was stuck in Bulgaria wondering whether he was still in the running for Seeker...

Viktor had often wondered what would've happened had he prioritized his studies. Former Headmaster Karkaroff had discouraged him from considering other options for a career. The Triwizard championship was just to confirm that Durmstrang students were as good as Hogwarts students.

That period in his life was unforgettable. He was second best, only five points behind. The Potter boy did not count: he had help.

He met his first love, though he said some things he shouldn't have.

On the other hand, it was a sad point in his life, as well, when a student was murdered in his own school: Cedric Diggory. When a dark lord came back to power, as Potter claimed. When all the spells and curses Viktor had learned from the Hogwarts library for the Final Task was useless as he was Imperiused to harm his friends.

The guilt gnawed at him. Yet again.

He was supposed to be versed in the dark arts. And here he was, a Quidditch Player. His Gregorovitch wand just a narrow strip of wood.

He covered his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

Quidditch was all he cared about now. His career needed an overhaul. He had to win back his friends...

Hermione had steadfast friends. She made him feel pathetic. She stopped writing two years ago...

If he stayed away, Hermione would remain in his mind a girl. A fourteen year-old girl.

Viktor picked up the letter that he had dropped on the floor. It was from his best friend who moved to Romania to study and work with dragons. He'd rather see a dragon for sure.

Dragons were fascinating creatures; not easy to forget once you've seen one. What better way to appreciate one's existence, or one's relevance, than have it exposed to challenges and danger? What better place? Did he need perspective? Advice? No, he needed a friend.

He needed to feel good about himself. This friend would help.

* * *

AN: Thinking about it, wouldn't it be nice to transfigure all non-biodegradable trash like pens into biodegradable ones like roses? Be inclined to leave a line. And, read the next chapter, which I think is better, cause this one's a bit wordy.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Summary** :_ Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.

 ** _Disclaimer_** **:** JKR owns everything Harry Potter; I own nothing but my imagination.

Wikipedia has been a great source.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Early that evening in mid-July, Viktor Krum mounted his broom and immediately took flight.

Disillusioned rider and broom soared about a thousand feet above ground, before veering North, across the Danube River, towards the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. The cool wind blew across his face, his coat whipping behind him, as lights from cities reflected on the Danube River made it seem like a long ribbon of stars. An hour later, at a height of more than eight thousand feet, the mountain ranges looked like the back of a sleeping dragon from his vantage point.

The peaks of the Tazeter mountains in the Southern Carpathians were as high as 2,500 metres. This compact group of mountains had rocky slopes, numerous lakes and virgin forests. These forests were home to brown bears, gray wolves, and lynxes as well as a variety of avian species, pines and firs, and edelweiss. Though one side of it Viktor knew was considered a Muggle National Park, there remained parts of the mountain system where a mist concealed the magical creatures for which Romania was known for. The climate remained temperate, appropriate for raising these creatures. Viktor felt with his dragon hide-gloved hand a wide breadth of protective magic over patches of these mountains as he hovered over them. Removing his disillusionment, he stretched out his wand as he swerved his broom, muttering rehearsed incantations, invoking Name Magic.

He created a small break in the magical field and dived through it, and the dark starry sky was no more.

The atmosphere immediately changed as he traversed the mist. There was a burning temperature, a sting in his eyes, a burn in his throat, followed by a tremendous force that hurtled Viktor a terrifying distance, before he collided on a hard solid object that almost crushed his skull. He thought he was in the midst of a hurricane, or an asteroid belt, when he opened his eyes. The sky was filled with gigantic, black, leathery-scaled Hungarian Horntail dragons, whipping their tails, bellowing thundering roars, their fanged mouths blasting out inextinguishable fire about thirty feet, their enormous bat-like wings fanning the hot air and flames in different directions. A pair of big yellow eyes with vertical slits for pupils from the nearest one, fixated on him, and reflexively, Viktor closed his eyes, and decreased altitude, feeling faint, deaf, and blind at the same time.

He swore he had forgotten something as he plunged closer to earth. He was either going to hit a tree or some wailing dragon on his descent, but he just managed to avoid both.

Viktor landed safely on forested foothills, near one of hundreds of faintly-lit tents, each about ten feet tall scattered within half a kilometer of each other, half hidden under mountain pine. The forests formed the perimeter of an immense rocky clearing. The visage before him reminded Viktor of Muggle hell. Or a volcanic eruption, without volcanoes. Things he'd seen only in Muggle books. He was afraid to breathe as he was assaulted with the smell of burning wood and leather, and something akin to petrol.

About 20-30 dragons were thrashing about, their feet and neck confined by iron shackles embedded into rock formations. These dragons were about 50 feet high as they raised their clawed front legs in the air and stretched out their bulky necks. The ground shook, and the air filled with fire, smoke, and dust clouds with their defiance. Their screeches were unnerving.

There were several species, and Viktor recognized only four, including the silvery gray, Swedish Short Snout, and the Welsh Green, but dragons all have leathery scales of varying textures, bat-like wings, spikes at their spines, and a massive prehensile tail. The black, Hungarian Horntails were more lizard-like by comparison, and had spikes along their tails; they were the most volatile of the lot. Surrounding each dragon were about 10 brave wizards, all shouting and running here and there, ducking with each breath of fire, or using some metal shield attached to one arm as a protective barrier. Scales glistened from the fire glow as well as from stunning spells cast by the wizards.

Most of the dragons visible were flying about, oblivious to the enclosure, illuminating the sky with bursts of orange firelight.

Bubble Head Charm. Viktor remembered too late as he rubbed the back of his head.

"Who are you visiting?" Someone behind him had spoken in Romanian.

Viktor turned around to face a haggard, wild-eyed man with a grin that was far too welcoming. His mouth and lips were blood-red, in fact, blood seemed to trickle down his graying goatee.

"My friend, Dimitar Yavorov. He is expecting me."

The maniacal grin turned into a disapproving frown before the stranger pointed to a group of wizards standing over a subdued Romanian dragon, emitting smoke, a few hundred feet beyond. It was feeding on what looked like bear meat. When Viktor reached the place, he heard a grim-faced Muggle ranger muttering to his friend something like, "I hate brown bears being slaughtered just because there's enough of them to feed your pets!"

"Feeding helps calm them down. It is difficult for everyone. As always, everything a speculation..." He turned his head as his name was called.

Dimitar was three inches shorter than Viktor, with longer, thicker head of black hair, chiseled beard and mustache. His skin had darkened, his face sharp as his eyes were keen, a high-spirited individual looking for all the world gaunt. His long brown cloak was tattered in places. He had been regarding the dragon before him with utmost interest.

Viktor could not contain his smile and relief as he greeted his old friend on foot. They were classmates, both having travelled to Britain three years ago for the Triwizard Tournament, one a spectator, the other a school champion. They were two of the brightest students of their year. But, Dimitar was more altruistic, more heart than muscle.

"Viktor, how are you? God has truly been good. You should have come in the morning. They," referring to the dragons, "would be more or less content and peaceful. You would've seen them more as social beings than savages. I would've had more time to spare, too.

"I have not seen you for ages, my good friend." He put an arm over Viktor's shoulder, and ignored everyone else, as they walked towards the forest thickness.

"Come, bring me news from home, and from the outside world. I feel like I am caged here as well, of course, I can leave whenever I want to, I feel like I'm the only one not taking a vacation, I don't know, I can't seem to imagine leaving them. Well, come, Viktor. See that red-and-white-striped tent, see the Bulgarian flag? Have supper with me. You brought food from home, yes? Oh, too much yelling, I think I will lose my voice, need a drink. You brought, what, rose brandy, or Mavrud wine? Oh, there's Maria, you should meet her,..."

Viktor was surprised that Dimitar did not need a broom. He instead tapped his wand against his thigh, and he immediately levitated himself before saying, "You will ride your broom, yes, you follow!"

Viktor supposed that despite the free dragons still roaming the sky, despite his own trepidation, the situation was under control. There was time for other things, like dinner. It was just another night in magical Romania.

* * *

When they reached the interior of the tent (which was magically five times wider than it looked from the outside, lit inside by floating jars of blue flames), the outside noise was immediately muffled. They were welcomed warmly by a pretty woman, also Bulgarian, Maria Yanevski who had prepared a meal for four. There was sweet bread, Cozunak, porridge from yellow corn flour, fish, lamb, sour soup, shopska salad, plums, and plum brandy. Viktor had brought out Mavrud wine, Lukanka, Banitsa, and rose jam. The meal was heartier when shared with friends.

Dimitar Yavorov had been living in Romania for the last 2 years, studying Magizoology. He had been fascinated with dragons ever since the Triwizard Tournament. When they had returned to Durmstrang Institute both he and Viktor knew they wanted to get out of urbanized Bulgaria once school ended. They wanted to see the world beyond the limitations of their magical knowledge. Viktor wanted to see a world beyond the agriculture, the rich prehistoric archeology, the military conquest of other countries, the religious traditions, beyond the coal mining and textile industries, the harnessing of hydraulic energy and nuclear energy, the tourism and Bulgaria's growing world attention. These Muggle places and activities that do not have room for Magic.

When Viktor turned 19, he moved out of his parents' house in Kazanlak which was a city more of ordinary workers than lofty dreamers. He moved to the town of Shipka in the Balkan Mountains where he could pursue his love of flight free from Muggle prying eyes. He took pride in his country's cultural identity, but his own freedom and identity would only be preserved through isolation.

His Pureblood parents had successfully mingled with Muggles: his mother worked at a pharmacy, his father was a part time teacher.

Dimitar, on the other hand, was either more noble or more daring. His idea of a rewarding profession was not some tiresome sport such as Quidditch.

The way Viktor saw it, Dimitar met and challenged death every day. He had a job worse than a doctor who could be needed at an unwanted hour of the night, or a person working at a nuclear power plant, getting paid well, but whose life could be wiped out by a single malfunction. Viktor did not care about dragons much. They were good for their hides, for their blood, for guarding bank vaults, and for rare sports events like the Triwizard Tournament. They simply occupied too much space. A space that kept dwindling as Muggles occupied and inherited the earth.

"Ah, Viktor," as their conversation wore on after dinner, Dimitar having demonstrated a tendency for switching between Bulgarian and Romanian, as both men seated opposite each other on wooden benches in the lounge area, "you think dragons are just that, creatures. No brains. Who is to know? This country, by which I mean Magicfolk, as well as The International Committee for Care of Magical Beasts, have not given any funding for research. I mean, except for Albus Dumbledore's research on the uses of dragon blood, not much else is known about dragons, nothing about their anatomy, except what we've learned from exposure and experience. These dragons are as old as the Earth. Who is to say they are not sentient? That they cannot be understood like Muggles have understood chimpanzees or gorillas? Their brains, for example, are they as big, their memory as keen as an elephant's? Or, are their brains as small, their minds as simple as a bird's or a dinosaur's?

"Magizoologists are still afraid of these grand, majestic beings, and continue to treat them with the harshest force necessary. We care for them for their use to humans, or goblins, but we are willing to kill them should they become out of control. That's what Muggles cooperating with us want. These few rangers want nothing to do with us. We had to compensate them for the damages. Costly enough. A dragon's diet alone is not to be trifled with."

"How do you kill a dragon? Its hide is almost impenetrable to magic. I doubt even Dark Magic,..."

"By drowning, of course, once it is tricked to fly over sea or ocean, and stunned, its own weight will do the rest,..." Dimitar wiped his forehead with his sleeve, as Viktor sipped his red wine.

"We have rendered many of them infertile. We have to control their population. Sadly, they are a dying breed. They multiply, become massive, while the world becomes smaller, though humans are partly to blame for that. If we could find a planet where they could be transported to live freely..."

"Then they will come back here, sentient, as you say, and annihilate us all." Viktor interjected, but he refrained from laughing.

There was an awkward silence. Viktor tried not to show he felt threatened by these beasts.

"So, I did not see any Chinese Fireball. I had to deal with one in the Tournament, if you remember,..."

"If truth be told, that particular one was a peaceful, benign creature that had been drugged at the time to make her enraged. See, how you caused that mother to crush her eggs? By a Conjunctivitis Curse, you awful man, and you were awarded high points for it! Anyway, she's all mellowed out in China. She bears good luck, though. And Maria here, doctorate and all, cannot brew a Felix Felices to save her life."

Maria had been silently brewing some potion on a counter on the right corner of the room. With her back turned to them, her stirring was anything but quiet.

Goodness knows, they all needed it.

"Any news from Professor Dumbledore? I have written letters to him through his school. I cannot thank him enough. You know, he funded my education. I will finish in a year, and I just might visit him..."

Viktor sighed, studied Dimitar, before solemnly speaking.

"Dumbledore is dead. Recently murdered by a teacher of Hogwarts, a friend of Karkaroff, a deatheater in all likelihood. Karkaroff himself was killed six months ago, for betraying his Dark Lord, I suppose. These are dark times in Britain."

Viktor could not shake the idea off his mind, that this was not supposed to happen in a prestigious school of a country of intelligent, skilled, open-minded wizards and witches. What was Durmstrang compared to Hogwarts, Bulgaria compared to Britain?

Dimitar stared at Viktor, dazed and confused. Maria gasped, her eyes darted from Viktor to Dimitar. Both were motionless for a few seconds, before Maria made a move to rush to him, but Dimitar held up a hand. He drained his wine glass, before he spoke.

"Romania is suffering economic instability now, but it remains the great nation that it is, with its protected natural ecosystems, its historic and attractive tourist destinations, its traditions and culture, its large reserves of crude oil and natural gas. Its dams and hydraulic energy. And this. It's a tough balance, but Muggles are its saving grace. We hated them before, but we should fear them."

Dimitar's face turned grave.

"Dumbledore would have been proud of you." Maria interjected in a soft whisper.

"His faith in you was enough." Viktor coughed, wanting to change the subject.

"Where would you be in three years?" From his friend's attire, he hoped this career would pay off in the end.

Dimitar momentarily clasped his hands, as he pressed them to his lips in contemplation.

"That does not matter in the grand scheme of things, Viktor. I am thinking this, it's better that Professor Dumbledore never knew what I've become, for I am not always proud of what I do here. Still, I love these creatures; most of us do. Newt Scamander may have labeled them as Beast Danger Category 5X in his book, killer and idiotic to domesticate, but they are friends, with names, mind you, and who would not support a friend, until the end?"

Dimitar's sudden chuckle lightened the mood somewhat. Maria approached and handed him a goblet of steaming potion. As she took his empty wine glass, she explained to Viktor. "It's a Voice Replenishing Potion. He talks too much, doesn't he? Your best friend needs a Calming Potion, gets too excited when somebody visits. Quite emotional when his parents visited a month ago. Embarrassing, really." She winked at Viktor, as Dimitar drank her potion with devotion.

"They worry about me too much. So, I get burned. I get bitten. Clawed. Ripped, even. Already happened a hundred times, and I'm still here. Thanks to Maria's potions and salve. She forced me to get a Tetanus shot from a Muggle, I will never forget it." Dimitar leaned closer to Viktor, as Maria walked away, huffing.

"My jewels, burned. Shocked them, I'd say. Alas, so much for impressing the ladies. I think I've lost the drive, too." Dimitar barely whispered, before he straightened up.

With a determined air and a broad smile, Dimitar loudly declared, "But, there are other ways of being happy, and doing what you want is the greatest euphoria."

The lull was interrupted by fire erupting on one side of the tent entrance, followed by harsh, shrill cries. Both men got up, but Dimitar pushed Viktor down before he conjured water that quenched the flames.

"Stay here, Viktor. It's just one dragon or two getting tired of flying in circles. Maria will give you a strong Sleeping Draught. You'll still be alive in the morning, I promise."

With one shared glance with Maria, who had her hand on her chest, Dimitar hastily exited the tent.

Dimitar Yavorov at 21 sounded like an old man; he had matured beyond expectation. He reminded Viktor of Dumbledore. Dimitar was happy, alone, yet considered himself among friends. Viktor was intimidated, yet he envied that feeling.

He did not get it from flying or from being on top of the world. Being higher than the highest peak of either the Carpathian or Balkan Mountains did not give him that feeling.

* * *

Viktor woke up with a start as he remembered where he was. Sunlight flooded the room through a small translucent patch on the tent wall. The twin-sized bed he slept on was made of wood with a thin cushion. There was enough space only for a trunk, a wardrobe and a small desk. Viktor had a dreamless, refreshing sleep, but had just begun to feel the headache and ringing of his ears from last night that he thought he imagined two voices arguing.

"Will you at least have breakfast? You did not eat last night." It was Maria's voice. A man, not Dimitar, answered. They were speaking in Bulgarian.

"Alright, but I cannot stay any longer in this place. I am joining the union protest at Bucharest. I have no choice. We have to stand up for our rights as coal miners. It's all we have." By "we" he must've meant Muggles.

"But, don't you think life is better here? You are important here. You are part of the Program to preserve biodiversity and protect the natural ecosystems of this country."

"I know I am not educated like you and Dimitar. I lived in Jiu Valley, all we ever knew was mining coal. The government has closed several mines, because they believe there is no future for the industry. But isn't it the government that put us there in the first place? Now, what is left for us? 20,000 jobs lost!"

"But, there has been a decrease in demand for coal in the last two years. While here, you get paid well as a ranger in this National Park, and we compensate for all damages and inconveniences to you and other rangers. And, you are from Moldavia, you were not born nor raised in Jiu Valley, you barely connect with the people there. Is it the dragons, we promised you protection,..."

"This is no place for a woman. Why do you care for these beasts? You are not a Magizoologist, you can work elsewhere. You know our ways, you are smart, why choose this life? Do you have a death wish, Maria?"

"Do you?"

"Mark my words, as soon as the railways are up and running, this place will be overrun by people you call Muggles. Tourists and opportunists. You will have no more place to hide your dragons, Maria. Your noble project is as good as done, your pets are as good as extinct. Oh, by the way, don't you need coal to run a train?"

Viktor decided to interrupt their conversation by his appearance. "Good morning, Maria. Where's Dimitar?" Maria suddenly stood up from the dining table.

"Viktor, come have breakfast. I trust you slept well? Sit. Oh, this here is Nicolae Cantemir, he..." and decided that was all she could say, "there's Cozunak, and Lukanka from last night. I'll make you coffee. Not the best, but it will warm you up."

"Good morning, had a scare last night? Maria forgot to put extra enchantments on the tent. Anyone could easily burn in their sleep. So, you're a broom flyer. Very masculine. Carrying a broom around...Maria said you play Quidditch? She likes Quidditch, says it's like football. But flying football?" Nicolae, who looked to be about 40, sneered at Viktor as he sat on the table across him. He was the man who was with Dimitar last night. Viktor never sneered; he scowled.

As Maria handed Viktor his coffee, Nicolae stood and rushed towards the tent exit, before he turned around for the last time. "If I don't fight for government aid, if nobody cared for the miners, what good am I? I who belong nowhere. Jiu Valley is the poorest in the country. Why should I not care?" He sighed.

"If all else fails, I will leave for Italy. A better life, maybe. I don't have your hope. But, I don't envy you. Best of luck then."

He gave a curt nod and left. Maria stared after him, before turning to Viktor.

"Have you eaten fried dragon egg? Crushed last night. I have no appetite for it, but you might." Viktor shook his head, smiling politely.

"Dimitar is waiting for you outside. We'll leave after breakfast, alright?" And as she sat down again, they ate quietly.

* * *

Viktor followed Maria to the place where he witnessed restless dragons the night before. It was eerily quiet. There were only shackles and leather straps that remained. Softer shrieks were audible, with occasional low grunts, from where he did not know. The sun warmed him greatly. It was apparent that the rocky landscape was created and maintained by falling...

"Viktor, watch out for falling stones, the mountains are constantly eroding. The mountains are rugged due to erosion, and become increasingly so as dragons step over them to get to their young. Let's go have a look!"

Viktor followed with his broom as Maria Yanevski, garbed like a Muggle Alpinist, levitated herself to ascend the mountains. The peak they reached was about 2,300 m. The air was thinner, and it took Viktor a while to adjust. Dimitar Yavorov was waiting for them, legs and elbows sprawled on the grass, watching a very young dragon tear up some edelweiss. Another in the near distance was eating what once was a struggling Pygmy owl, blood splattered on its face. Still another was staring at a lake, apparently amused by its reflection. These young creatures, different species each, were 2-3 feet tall. Their scales were smooth, and there were no spikes. Their heads were proportionately bigger. At least a hundred feet away were several groups of adult dragons sleeping on their bellies, smoke emitting from their nostrils, oblivious to some of their young jumping on their tails.

"They need to be taught how to fly soon, or they'll do nothing but fatten themselves. Voracious eaters they are." Dimitar said lazily.

"How do they learn to fly?"

"Same way birds figure it."

One of the wakeful adult dragons, a Swedish Short Snout, was seated on its hind legs, nuzzling its young. Maria seemed to be talking to it, as she rubbed the scales on its neck. Then, she tapped the youngling to follow her. After a few feet distance, Maria levitated it to hover over the lake, until it was about twenty feet up, before she released the dragon, which only dropped headlong on the body of cold water, squawking at her in indignation. The parent snorted, snapped its jaws, and lashed its tail, seemingly exasperated or encouraging.

Then the dragon reared its head toward the bright sun. Other dragons that were awake laid on their backs, bellies and legs up, or scratched their backs against the ridges, throwing off debris and stones. Grunts and snorts in synchrony.

"They love the sunlight, and they marvel at its reflection on the lakes, as on anything, really. Love shiny objects, the metal shields, for instance. One of them stole Maria's gold...As you can see, Viktor, dragons can be peaceful creatures. I was thinking that maybe darkness alarms them. Maybe the lack of sunlight makes them think they're in unfamiliar territory. Maybe their vision is impaired at night. Maybe they're really nocturnal, just wanted freedom. Some do sleep at night, though, unmedicated. I do not know if it's some sort of Vitamin they get or maybe solar radiation. I cannot explain this calming effect of the sun on them. Like all is right with the world."

Maybe the sparse oxygen had something to do with their...

Maria, undismayed, tried again. The young short snout tried to run away, but was magically impeded. Dimitar scrambled to his feet towards them; he pulled her arm just as she was on the verge of pushing the young dragon over the cliff. They had an inaudible discussion, about a few meters from where Viktor stood. Dimitar was holding one of her arms, while he was touching her cheek, whether he was telling her it wasn't a good idea to kill the youngling in front of its parent, Viktor never knew.

His musings were cut short by something trying to cut into his leg. Good thing to wear combat boots, too, for a small Romanian baby dragon seemed eager to play with him or eat him. He could've dislocated his knee with all the effort he took to disengage this thing from its pastime.

Dimitar distracted it with his silver Muggle watch, and it scampered away. Viktor lost his balance and fell on his bottom. He scowled as they laughed at his expense.

There were other Magizoologists who attended to mothers hatching their eggs, administering medications or vitamins. Some were just gathering water from the lakes.

The best part of the day was the knowledge that the Horntails were contentedly in deep slumber, both young and old. Viktor learned that the old had a tendency to burn their young or crush their eggs at night during fits of rage, which was why they were released at night.

"All these years, we've done nothing but speculate. In the meantime, how much more damage can these mountain ranges endure? Eventually they will be reduced to hills and plains. We certainly are no help to Muggles."

Hard life. Uncertain future. Borrowed time.

It was not a life that Viktor would want for anyone. Sacrificial.

His friends sensed that he should not endure more than two nights, and they encouraged him to return home.

* * *

"So, you like Quidditch?" Viktor and Maria were standing in front of the tent, facing the beginning sunset, their faces radiant orange. Maria's black hair was tied in a loose bun, her dark eyes enticing, her lips were full of mirth, baring perfect teeth. She stood straight at 5'5", a slender, graceful figure. Although older by about three years, despite wearing a shirt and pants, she was very attractive in her simplicity, and her errant ways.

Maria shrugged.

"A little. It was just distraction for me. The vampires from Brasov City, Transylvania bring us news from other parts of the world. Including Quidditch. You are very popular among the ladies, I recall. " She smiled at him again, before she looked away, her face turned serious.

"The vampires venture everywhere, of course only at night. They're good at getting information, a bunch of gossips they are. They get invited, very popular with the wizards, so they claim. I don't know why we never heard about Professor Dumbledore's death. He was our hero here. He was one of my inspirations...

"Anyway, I'm glad you did not meet them, they sometimes drop by here when they're bored, ravish some sheep, or chamois, then leave before dawn. They're opportunistic, parasitic, albeit lonely creatures. I don't care much for them. We'd kill them if they hurt the Muggles. Since Dracula's Castle became a tourist attraction, they had hardly gotten any peaceful sleep; that's why they travel a lot."

There were herds of chamois down the valley below. Several Muggle boys were leading them home, Viktor supposed. They were safe for the time being.

"I really admire what you're doing, Maria. Standing by my friend."

Maria crossed her arms, the chilly air seemed to affect her more.

"As long as Dimitar needs me, I will be here. He is very stressed, especially during the school year when he would come home at night from school. I am the only one who can calm him down, though he thinks it's my potions. I don't care about his jewels being..." She touched her cheeks abruptly, before straightening herself up.

"Well, there are more important things, like his passion and his depth of understanding. I hope he would take a break when he graduates..." There was a wistful look on her face.

Dimitar was somewhere with the other Magizoologists, working on some dragon, while some other group checked on nursing mothers, some on the eggs, or the younglings.

"He wanted me to settle down. Somewhere where I can raise children. While I still could." She wiped a tear from her face, and huffed. "He cannot get rid of me that easily. He will miss me, I know it!" Maria stared at Viktor.

"Thank you for coming, Viktor. It brought joy to my Dimitar."

"Have you told him you love him?"

"Don't worry about me, Mr. Krum. My problems do not factor in the grand scheme of things. Worry about your own. What's her name, Herminy?"

"Yavarov told you? That's, that's a long time ago! I don't even know how to say her name. I was young then, I was stupid. Stupid. I want...to forget it." Viktor blushed and looked away, as he stamped his foot on the ground.

"Well, don't make stupidity a habit, then." Viktor took the words to heart. He calmed down and spoke wearily.

"Nothing happened between us. So, we...shared a kiss. We were young. She liked somebody else even then."

"Viktor Krum, for the sake of your friend, who risks his life to care for creatures no one cared about, he who thinks nothing of himself, he who wants to cherish life in all its forms,..."

"Make something of my life, you mean?" Viktor asked, bitterly.

"Love, like it's the first time. Love like it's the only thing that matters. Even if it hurts in the end."

With that, the conversation ended. She turned back towards the tent, leaving Viktor and the sun to sink into the shadows.

* * *

AN: As much as I liked writing this long chapter, this is the only one in this story. I've run out of ideas, honestly.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Summary** :_ Viktor Krum held the belief that Unity, not Magic, is might. Stuck in the middle of a war in Britain, armed with nothing but a broom and a broken heart, Viktor's self-pride may just be his saving grace.

 ** _Disclaimer_** **:** JKR owns everything Harry Potter. I make no profit out of this preoccupation.

Thank you if you have reached this far.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

There had been a disturbance in the quiet and peaceful house of Veselin and Stefka Krum on a Wednesday around 7 in the morning. They were having breakfast when there was a knock on their door.

It was quite a surprise to find their son at their doorstep looking careworn like he had seen death, or had the worst possible news. As Veselin stepped aside he was immediately hugged and kissed on the cheeks.

Stefka heard her name uttered with urgency. Her heart ran a gamut of emotions from fear to worry to joy when her view was obliterated by rough, brown tunic with arms that lifted her up and almost crushed her.

They were not accustomed to such display of affection from their son since his first year as a professional athlete. He refused to tell them where he had been.

Viktor had been on his own for the last 2 years. Had he been hiking in the Balkans? She feared though that he might have been flying alone and had an accident again. He smiled wanly at them, insisting that he was fine. Yet he seemed different somehow.

It was quite unusual to suddenly hear their son thanking them for their love and support. If truth be told, he had not really needed them all these years. He asked to spend a few days with them.

They knew that Viktor was presently unemployed. Stefka had been worried about his future but Veselin had said that this lull could just be what their son needed to examine his life.

Viktor had been a resilient, quiet, stubborn young man. He listened to advice and opinion but rarely considered it. He was a man of very few words. And although he was not as comfortable like they were mingling with Muggles and their culture, he had not expressed any propensity for casting spells and charms. He was brilliant in his school days, but somehow Quidditch took some of that away.

When Viktor fell in love with a Muggle woman, they were very happy that somebody would be taking care of him. Yordanka Petrova was a fine young woman, but like men and women her age, she wanted to study if not work in a foreign country. It was sad that Bulgaria had become a country of older adults and not of boisterous youth. Kazanlak was a city of industries, and though the red roses harvested for their oil were quite in demand, the town quite romantic during May and June when these roses were in bloom, it seemed melancholic without youth to appreciate it or young love to accompany it.

They were grateful that Viktor stayed close to them, though Quidditch was his life and they mostly heard from him from the media, which was a jumble of half-truths, gossip, and lies.

Like all parents, they could do nothing but wish the best for their child. They wished that Viktor would outlive them at least.

When your adult estranged son comes home to you, you have a million questions you can't ask him. Men don't do well with confrontation.

To a child, a mother gives what is needed. To an adult, a mother gives what is asked.

There was another knock on the door that morning. It was the young unmarried mother, Maria Stoichkov, who lived in an apartment a block away. Her partner worked in Sofia. Stefka would not be surprised if he had taken the train to Moscow or Turkey for all the time and attention he gave her.

"I'm sorry to be a bother, Mrs. Krum, but it's my three-month old baby, little Nikolay, he has a fever,..." The woman unwrapped the baby in her arms, as she whispered prayers to him.

Stefka was expecting her smart son to scoff that she was no medic, by no means a Mediwitch. But he just politely excused himself.

Viktor had gone to his old room which was a bit too small. It was the only thing that did not change as the rest of the two-storey house had been expanded and developed to meet the demands of modern Muggle living standards.

They had saved all his memorabilia in this one room. His baby pictures which he did not want to see. They were Muggle photos of Viktor as a child up to his entry into Durmstrang. He grew up into Muggle culture, having been exposed to Bulgarian traditions and music. He had quite a voice, albeit nasally; Stefka fondly recalled her son singing at some of her friends' parties. He was shy, but affable. Somehow, Durmstrang Institute wiped this precious boy from memory.

He had taken all magical photographs with him when he moved out, because the couple welcomed Muggle friends over quite often, mostly people asking Stefka for medical advice.

* * *

Although Stefka's favorite subject in school was Herbology, her favorite Professor taught Charms. She got top marks simply because Charms, deemed feminine by most male students, was taken seriously only by a few.

Stefka Orozov met Veselin Krum in Durmstrang. Their love blossomed five years later.

Veselin Krum was the son of a Bulgarian wizard who fought in the second Muggle world war, or what the wizarding world referred to as the war instigated by Gellert Grindelwald.

Grindelwald was a brilliant student of Durmstrang until 1897 as Stefka remembered from her husband. Probably of German ancestry. He was a boy who excelled especially in the Dark Arts. However, he had a rift with a Muggleborn, and that unnamed Muggleborn wizard was never heard of again. Some say it was a duel to the death, but the school never in history condoned such things.

Grindelwald hated Muggles who occupied most of the world while wizards were a small population in-hiding. He had formed a small group of students who shared in his ideals of blood purity and Muggle hatred, and they even had a symbol. Some sort of triangle with a circle inside. Grindelwald carved it on one wall in the entrance to the school before he was expelled in his seventh year.

No one had heard from him since. Until about 55 years ago. A major war broke out. Muggles and Muggleborns were being killed everywhere. With Muggle weapons as well as with fatal curses from Grindelwald's forces. Grindelwald had re-emerged, invincible. He had imperiused if not allied with a Muggle political leader from Germany in the process. Everyone was afraid to leave their homes; being a suspect was enough cause for torture and murder. Life had been cheapened as food became scarce, lands and properties confiscated, and security rendered unstable. Still, heroes emerged, for no force ever went unresisted.

One of such heroes was a Bulgarian wizard named Borislav. He was part of a band of friends and their families; they fought for the oppressed, the downtrodden. They were "blood traitors." They fought the good fight, and Borislav dueled Grindelwald himself. It was a short duel that no one but Bulgarians committed to memory. Still, he lost valiantly, leaving his wife, and a one year-old Veselin Krum.

It was prevailing knowledge in the resistance that Grindelwald was indestructible because he possessed the Elder Wand. Some had seen him use it with ease. The notorious wand was believed to confer on its owner the power of infallibility, especially in subduing and killing their opponents. It was owned one time by the famed wandmaker Gregorovitch. He had claimed that it was stolen from him. His description of it was mentioned in one of the books used in the subject of _Wandlore and Magical Theory._

 _Wandlore and Magical Theory,_ the course devoted to the study of wands was a subject taught to sixth and seventh year students in Durmstrang. Stefka did not pay much attention to it. It was not as tedious as History of Magic. No one actually failed in it, but she felt a disinclination towards it, and preferred a peaceful coexistence with nature and magical creatures. She did not believe wands were all that special. Great magic could only come from great wizards. It would be superstition to bestow such a power upon an inanimate object, but very few shared her belief.

The defeat of the great wizard Gellert Grindelwald in 1945 (by the greater wizard Albus Dumbledore) finally concluded the battle for blood supremacy, although prejudice persisted through the years. Skin color might have been the worst one. The worst unrest was all before Stefka went to magical school. But even growing up, she knew there were subtle signs in every country, some more blatant than others. It even existed in the Muggle world.

She could not comprehend why there was so much hatred and discord among humans. Why humans were bent on destroying themselves and the world they inhabited. If magic could be put to good use, the world could live forever. No problem, no conflict, no disease. Peace and harmony all around. She was glad at least that Muggle languages were taught in Durmstrang. Communication was certainly the first step in fostering tolerance.

Stefka used to be a girl that was all about gender equality, women liberation, and independence. Maybe because she did not finish her seventh year and she lost all self-confidence. Or maybe, compassion stood in the way, and she had relegated herself to the background. Helping people get well. Muggle life was not so bad. She even relished giving relationship advice.

For she was happily married. To a man who inspired her. The man who taught Charms for almost 11 years.

* * *

Veselin grew up an orphan before he even entered Durmstrang as a student. He was raised by one of the professors' friends, and he practically grew up in school. He loved transfiguration, charms and the dark arts. He joined the Academia at the age of 20. It was not until 10 years later that he fell for a woman. Maybe it was her brilliance. Maybe it was her beauty. Or maybe because they shared the same homeland, one he barely knew.

The crime was not allowing a girl half his age to fall for him. It was taking advantage of such innocence and getting a student pregnant while supposedly upholding moral principles and respectability. He did not let go of her despite complaints from parents and pressure from the other professors. His foster father died prematurely.

She was expelled without alternative schooling. Bulgarian women were allowed to marry at her age, but their affair was deemed inappropriate and scandalous.

Veselin loved her too much and hated the school for punishing her and her family. He left his profession and found work in Bulgaria. They got married just before Viktor was born. Their Muggle life had begun.

It was a visit from a professor friend of Veselin to formally invite his then twelve-year old son to Durmstrang Institute that made him realize that Viktor belonged with the magical community. He was very shy as a kid, always bullied because he acted weird around his Muggle classmates. Veselin and Stefka had shielded him from magic for years; they took him to pediatricians who constantly found him sickly and withdrawn. These doctors suspected the parents of "neglecting" or "mistreating" their son, in an attempt to conceal their own failures in finding a cure.

When Veselin bought him a toy broom for his seventh birthday. Viktor's self-confidence soared. His health improved. He was still shy but understood early on that he was meant to be special. Meant to do something great.

Not just fly around looking for golden balls...

Veselin in hindsight should have given Viktor a book about _Durmstrang Through The Centuries_ instead. As Viktor grew older and decided that being a Quidditch Seeker was what he wanted for a career, their worrying took a turn for the worst. How they wished they could mirror their son's joys.

The teenaged Viktor insisted that this was what he was good at. Flight was his flight, his escape, his self-expression, as he stated time and again. Veselin recalled that his son did not mention any close friends from school other than Dimitar Yavarov. Stefka concluded that he was quite a recluse; Veselin thought he was skiving off chores and school responsibilities. It was made all the worse by then headmaster Igor Karkaroff's encouragement. They did not trust Karkaroff to have Viktor's best interest at heart. He had Viktor in the palm of his hand.

When Karkaroff disappeared two years ago, Veselin and his wife were relieved beyond words. Karkaroff was not smart. He was superficial, narcissistic, materialistic. He did not treat his students fairly. He especially rallied for an exclusively pureblood male magical school. He allowed boys to drink alcohol after school hours. He forced Viktor to work as a professional athlete while still in school. Dimitar helped him survive through the rigors of school. The boys even taught each other how to mend injuries. Dimitar was like a son to Veselin and Stefka.

Viktor would even claim that Dimitar was the smartest in class, but was out of Karkaroff's good graces because he did not play Quidditch. But Veselin knew that the famed Goblet of Fire, not Karkaroff, chose Viktor as the school champion. That said a lot.

Veselin Krum had wondered why Viktor had stopped mentioning Dimitar after they graduated from school. He just said that he had lost touch with his best friend. But now, the older Krum wondered...

* * *

Viktor had been having terrible nightmares. Stefka had woken up one night too many.

Viktor had been more quiet recently. He had that faraway look. Whenever she confronted him about it, he would just shrug it off and say that he was tired. But his subconscious would not lie.

Every night, he was heard screaming in his sleep. Calling for Dimitar and a woman named Maria. He would suddenly wake up drenched in sweat and once or twice when he was half disoriented he would confess to having dreams of Dimitar getting trampled, his body being ripped open and consumed alive by a Horntail dragon. Of Maria being pushed off the cliff by young dragons. He would cover his ears, bending over in inexplicable agony.

He would finally stutter "I will remember, I promise," before falling back to sleep.

Where did her son get this illness? He had not mentioned his best friend in years. Where had Viktor been? Was this about the Tournament three years back? Was this a complication of his head trauma?

When asked during wakefulness, he would either refuse to tell about his dreams, or nightmares, or deny having them. He did ask her to make a Sleeping Draught. She offered him Muggle medicines to help him sleep but they did not work for him.

One morning, four days since he arrived, Viktor was seated in the dining room, drinking coffee that his mother made for him.

"You might as well tell me the truth, Viktor. I gave you Veritaserum." She stopped kneading the dough for the sweet bread, dusted flour off her hands, and faced her son with a steely eye.

"No, you did not." He chuckled, but quickly put down his cup.

"How do you know? It's clear, tasteless, odorless. Out with it!"

"I have nothing to tell. Please leave me alone. I should have silenced my room." Viktor mumbled the last bit, before searching his pockets, scowling to find them empty.

"Viktor Krum! How dare you! Is this how you treat your mother now? You used to come to me for everything. Such a shy child you were. Quidditch and that Karkaroff changed you. Now, you're arrogant and dismissive with us! What have I done to deserve this, I ask you?! Is this what Karkaroff had taught you?!"

Viktor momentarily looked alarmed. Then he heaved a sigh, as he rubbed his eyes in exasperation. He glanced across the dining table at his father, who was reading his newspaper, quiet but expectant. Viktor then turned to face his mother.

"Do you think dragons are sentient? Do you think they are capable of vengeance against humans? They...keep screaming in my head..." He visibly trembled, with that faraway look again.

* * *

"Are you sure you did well on Potions? Why can't you make the draught?" Cranky like a boy.

"Well, you should remember how to do it, seeing you're so clever and young. Look over your books, then, and refresh my memory."

The ingredients had just arrived by owl post after Veselin ordered from a colleague in Italy two days prior.

They made the Sleeping Draught together. Viktor gratefully consumed the potion every night, and it made a world of difference.

She was on her way to work one morning when she found Viktor in the kitchen, slicing cucumbers for the shopska salad, while drinking rose brandy. When he acknowledged her, she sighed.

"I worry about you, Viktor. I really wish you'd be more open with us. You are keeping secrets now, yet you still come to me when you need something."

"I think I'm well now. I'm ready to go back to work." He was chopping tomatoes, peppers, and parsley with such haste and force he could've cut one of his Seeking fingers. She restricted herself to watching him add sunflower oil to the salad.

"You know that Canada won the Quidditch World Cup?" He looked at her, surprised. His face managed to crack a smile.

"If we lost to them, I would say we were second best."

"Viktor, you are certainly a man of contradiction. Hugging and thanking your parents,..."

Viktor interjected, "I've used you."

"that was just too good to last..."

"I'd like to believe I've changed. I was thinking of a new investor for the team. Someone more prominent, you know, and more open-minded,..." He offered the salad, and she took a cucumber slice.

"Still thinking about Quidditch? They don't even appreciate you there. You were fantastic! The youngest, the best Seeker in the world! And they replaced you."

Before Viktor could rebut, she said, "You deserve better. Maybe, they're not worth it, son. A-At least give them time to miss you." Viktor put grated sirene cheese on top of the salad before placing it in the cooler.

"I'm going out in an hour to practice. I'll be back in time for supper. No stunts, I promise."

Viktor had been frequently using their Muggle phone in an attempt to contact his friends. She recalled dear Zograf and Levski. Sweet boys who loved her cooking. They had Muggle phones but not one answered or returned his calls. It was painful to watch her son teeter between despair and loneliness.

He was able to reach his manager who only extended his vacation to six months. There was no need to worry about practice, it was too early, funds were low at this point.

"It seems I've lost the bet." He scowled. At that moment, Veselin entered the house.

"I will get my wand." At these words, his father smiled, too widely.

Viktor was so angry, he took his wand, and practiced the dark arts with his father. Veselin, who was on vacation for another month, was only too happy to comply. He was aching to practice some vicious curses himself.

* * *

AN: There are obviously arcs in every chapter. Just to elucidate characters. Maybe the chapters are snippets tied together. I have switched POV, switched back to narration, which tends to get boring, but, oh well. Happy New Year!


End file.
